


Fresh Meat

by orphan_account



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, male!Harley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-23 09:32:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4871761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harlan is too busy staring in shock to see a small group of patients turn to look at him.</p><p>"Now <i>who</i> is <i>that</i>?" a slender red head asks, looking over his shoulder and staring directly at an oblivious Harlan.</p><p>"Fresh meat," his neighbour laughs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fresh Meat

_Deep breaths, Harl. Deep breaths._

It's a mantra, almost, that Harlan keeps repeating to himself. He can almost see the words floating in front of his eyelids each time he blinks. _Deep breaths._

Arkham Asylum can't be as bad as people like to say, right? It's a new hospital now. It's all upgraded, and refurbished and re-staffed, and...no. No matter how much he tries to reassure himself, Harlan knows he's screwed. He has this twisted ball of anxiety in the pit of his stomach and he knows he's going to be eaten alive.

_At least there's a mortuary on the grounds, I suppose._

He steps off the bus outside the gates of the Asylum. (He doesn't even own a car yet. Straight out of school and straight into a god damn asylum.) The old Victorian building looms above him, and as the gates creak open Harlan tries to give the security guards a warm smile - it isn't returned, of course, and he just puts his head down and starts walking towards the main entrance, his briefcase hitting off the back of his thigh.

_What the hell am I doing?_

The door to the main entrance is locked, of course, and Harlan curses himself for not having his keys ready. He starts to fumble in his coat pocket, but the door buzzes and opens to reveal a portly older gentleman with thinning brown hair. Harlan stares open eyed, and he just knows he looks like a deer caught in headlights.

"Uh-"

"Can I help you?" The portly man asks, a tone of discontent in his voice.

"Uh, yes, uhm." Harlan straightens up and runs a hand through his short, dyed black hair. "Harlan Quinzel. Uh, I'm the new-"

"Ah, the new doctor," the man says, and he steps aside to allow Harlan inside.

"Well, junior doctor," Harlan quickly says. "I, uh. This is my first residency."

The man more or less ignores him and starts walking towards what Harlan assumes is the reception. It looks more like a librarian's desk, dusty and piled high with books and papers. There's an older lady behind it who doesn't seem to have even noticed that there's anyone there but her.

"Here we are," the man says as he grabs a file folder from the desk. "Quinzel. Odd name, that."

Harlan tries to smile, but he's too busy trying to stop himself from trembling.

"I'm Dr. Green," the man finally introduces himself. "You're filling in for Dr. Benson."

Harlan's heart drops. "What? Uh, there must be-" he swallows. "-s-some mistake."

Dr. Green raises an eyebrow and shoves the file at Harlan's chest. "No mistake. Your office is in the west wing, 66A."

He turns and leaves, and Harlan stares after him, clutching his file and mouthing silently.

*

It takes about twenty minutes, but Harlan finally finds his office. It's a dusty little room, barely bigger than a broom cupboard. It's got a horrible musty smell and there's damp patches in the corners, but for all it's purposes it's an office. There's a large, heavy duty oak desk that Harlan is pretty impressed with, with chairs on either side. There's two old filing cabinets and a coat stand, which makes Harlan giggle slightly.

"Hello nineteen thirties," he mutters to himself, then starts to sort his office out.

From a quick read-through of the file Dr. Green had forced upon him, Harlan gathers that whilst he may only be getting a junior psychiatrist's salary, he's more or less taking over the whole workload of the absent Dr. Benson. _Go figure._ He's got a list of patients, and he soon discovers their badly organised files in the cabinets behind his desk. 

He takes almost an hour tidying up, trying to dust the room a little and organize the files into some sort of working order, but Harlan is pulled out of his frenzy by the sound of the telephone ringing (that he'd discovered in a desk drawer).

"You have an appointment at nine fifteen," a dreary, tired female voice says. Harlan assumes it's the receptionist he saw earlier, but before he can ask any questions or even thank her, she's hung up.

Harlan stares at the phone for a few seconds then sighs. 

"Okay," he tells himself. "I guess this is it."

*

Harlan makes his way down to the recreation area. There's a sea of black and white stripes, men and women alike, lounging around tables and sofas, watching TV or reading magazines. For a few seconds Harlan feels like that maybe Arkham Asylum isn't as bad as it's reputation would have you think, but a fight breaks out to the left of him and he's left stunned as two porters pull two blood covered patients past him.

Harlan is too busy staring in shock to see a small group of patients turn to look at him.

"Now _who_ is _that_?" a slender red head asks, looking over his shoulder and staring directly at an oblivious Harlan.

"Fresh meat," his neighbour laughs.

*

"Jerome...Valeska?" Harlan asks. "Am I pronouncing that right?"

Jerome nods, elbows on the metal table of the interview room, resting his chin on his hands. His bright red hair is quite striking in it's quiff-like style. "And you are?"

"Dr. Quinzel," Harlan says, with as much authority as his nerves will allow. "I'm taking over for Dr. Benson."

"Aw, poo," Jerome says, and Harlan doesn't know if he's being sarcastic or not as he slumps back in his chair. "And when we were just getting to know each other, too."

"Hmm. Sorry." Harlan says, and he's already chastising himself. "I'll be handling your case for the forseeable future."

Jerome grins and sits up straight. "Lucky old me," he says, and he leans on the table with his elbows again.

Harlan does his best not to smile, he really does. He's been this room with Valeska for less than two minutes, but the guy has charisma. "Okay," he says, and clears his throat as he shuffles through the files in front of him. "I'm not very familiar with your file, I'm afraid, I only just-"

"I killed my mother," Jerome says with a forced yawn. "Old bat."

Harlan stops his shuffling and looks up at his patient. "Oh. Well. That clears that up, then."

Jerome grins at him, wider than Harlan thinks is humanly possibly. 

"I like you," Jerome says, and he leans over a little closer. "You got spunk, kid."

Harlan tries to keep a cool, calm face. He's been trained to deal with all types of psychotic behaviors. He knows what he's doing.

"Thank you, Mr. Valeska." Harlan says, and he pulls a pen out of his pocket and starts to write some notes in the file.

"Pfft." Jerome falls back in his chair again. "Jerome, please. Mr. Valeska was...well, not my father, actually. My father is a blind old idiot."

Harlan nods, continuing his scribbling.

"What about you, Dr. Quinzel?"

Harlan looks up. "Pardon?"

"First name?" Jerome says, one eyebrow raised. "Seems fair. You get to know everything about me."

Harlan stares at his patient for a few seconds before he says, "Harlan. Harlan Quinzel."

Jerome's eyes widen and he almost looks shocked. "Harlan...Quinzel..."

Harlan nods and goes back to his notes. He's jotting down a little note about Valeska's friendly exterior when he freezes. Jerome has wrapped his hand around Harlan's wrist. 

Harlan looks up to see Jerome staring at him with the most gleeful face Harlan thinks he's ever seen in his life.

"Your name..." Jerome says joyfully. "It's just like the Harlequin."

Harlan holds back a gulp and pulls his hand free. He has a feeling the security outside of the room won't be happy about contact, and he doesn't think Jerome has done anything to warrant disciplinary action.

"I suppose it is," Harlan says and he flips open the file and starts skimming Dr. Benson's terrible writing.

"I love the story of Pierrot," Jerome muses. "Columbina breaks his heart for Harlequin." He sighs dramatically. "Harlequin, so joyful and mischievous...Pierrot never stood a chance against his charms."

Harlan continues his reading, but he can feel Valeska's eyes on him. He looks up briefly.

"I saw the play, once."

Jerome almost explodes. "AH! I knew I liked you!"

Harlan can't hide the tiny grin on his face, and he goes back to his notes.

The rest of the interview goes mostly the same. Harlan asks some questions about Jerome's childhood, his mother, his life in the circus, but Jerome goes off on a tangent more often than not, telling Harlan about the clowns in the circus, about a baby elephant he watched die as a child. He tells every story with a gleeful tone in his voice that is both pleasant and unnerving, Harlan finds.

At the end of the appointment, two burly hospital porters in white come in to bring Jerome back to his cell. He stares at Harlan with a wide smile as they shackle his wrists (something Harlan had specifically asked to be removed at the beginning of the session).

"I'll see you next week, Mr. Val- Jerome," Harlan says as Jerome is lead towards the door.

"Until next time, Harley." He blows a kiss in Harlan's direction. The door slams shut and Harlan is still staring at it even moments later. His heart is racing and he can hear the blood pounding in his ears. He swallows and turns back to the file in front of him, all attempts to convince himself that Arkham Asylum is like every other psychiatric hospital now out the window.


End file.
